by Susan Forest
“Hush,” he murmured into her hair. “What are you doing here?”
“Captured.” And all the events since Archwood inundated her and overwhelmed her.
Gweddien led her to the bed and sat beside her until her sobs quieted. “I am so, so sorry.”
“But...” This made no sense. She gestured to the room. “Why...why has King Artem—Huwen, I mean—seized us, only to give us these luxuries?”
Gweddien’s face became subtly darker. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
A crawling sensation crept over her skin. “I...don’t understand.” But she did.
“It’s not Huwen.” A sheen broke out on Gweddien’s skin and his eyes darted, restless. “It’s Wenid. He wants magiel babies.”
She jerked back.
His mouth curled as though he tasted something bitter. “I don’t know why.”
Her gorge rose. “And...”
The bed.
She stood, backing away.
Those women. One each night. “You...”
He straightened ever so slightly. “There’s no hope, Janat.”
She gave him a sharp look. Something was wrong with him. He was ill.
“The soldiers will be on guard outside the door all night. If we don’t perform, we’ll be punished.” The words were almost perfunctory. He’d said them before. Many times.
“Then they can punish us.”
“I’ve seen what he can do.” He looked away. These whispered words came out hoarse, agonized. Honest.
She couldn’t help herself. She felt a sneer crawl up her lip. “You’re in on this?” she asked. “For the sake of regular meals and a gilt cage to live in?”
His eyes flashed, black. “No!”
“No?”
He spoke vehemently. “There are rebels, Janat. Maybe you don’t know. Revolutionaries fighting Artem’s madness.”
She remained silent. She knew. But this masquerade might be intended to draw her out.
“I was one of them,” he spat. “Don’t accuse me of treason for my own gain.”
She lifted a brow. The evidence of his treachery was right before her.
He let out a helpless breath, seeming to lose all the bones in his body. “I’m ensorcelled. Can’t you see?”
“No. You look to be in full possession of your body, your mind, and your will.” Or...no. There was something wrong with him. There was. A...palsy. “Would you force yourself on me?”
“Don’t!”
She paced, abruptly filled with the need to move, to distance herself from him, to strike out. “We’re magiels! There must be some way we can escape.”
Coldness settled on Gweddien and his eyes lidded. “Not for me.” He looked up impotently. “We will do as Wenid wishes. Gently, or forcefully.”
Gweddien was an enemy.
“I’m sorry, Janat. But I can’t...”
Sorry? She wanted to spit on him.
A peculiar change came over his expression. “Janat. Falconer.” He stood. Watched her. Wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed one eye, shivering. “My God. Janatelle. Falkyn. From Archwood,” he whispered.
That name. She’d never told him.
He marched to the door and knocked. A soldier opened it. “Summon Chancellor Wenid.”
No! Gods, no!
“He must come immediately.”
CHAPTER 38
Huwen slumped in his chair, staring at a supper he no longer had a stomach to eat. The dull light of the rainy evening gave a gray cast to the opulent chamber, robbing its carpets and tapestries of color. It was not the fatigue of travel or even grief for his father that dragged down his shoulders, so much as the words of Uther’s story turning over and over in his head. The uncertainty he’d felt all day, observing his advisors, seeing his entire life, his entire world, with new eyes. Uther’s tale had confirmed nothing but implied much.
Eamon had died. Almost two years ago. The child had seen Heaven, not as a king caring for his magiel saw it, gray and stripped of rapture, but in all its radiant glory. Return to this earthly sphere was a torment the boy could not endure.
The page announced his magiel, and Huwen straightened. “Wenid.”
“Your Majesty.” The old man bowed, steadied by his cane.
Huwen indicated the seat at the table opposite him. “Please. Sit. Eat.”
“I’ve dined, Your Majesty, but thank you.” Nevertheless, the old man, dressed in rich vestments of silk brocade, accepted the seat. Interesting. He didn’t wear the unbleached linen of a magic wielder. And within the lined face, the eyes were sharp and...curious?...predatory?
“I spoke with Uther last night.”
If the news was significant to Wenid, he made no sign, but his countenance veiled with caution. He avoided Huwen’s eyes by perusing the jam cakes.
Huwen tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. “I asked Uther about the night my brother died.”
This stopped Wenid’s hand, only fractionally, as he reached for a small cake. “Praise the One God for His mercy,” he murmured.
“I am the king. You are my magiel. There should be no secrets between us.”
This caught the old man’s attention. “Certainly not.”
“From Uther’s story, I’m led to understand that you brought my brother back from death.”
The eyes calculated. “It was a near thing, Majesty.”
He shook his head, once, sharply. “Not near death. Death.”
His magiel studied him, judging. “When you attend me in Heaven, Your Majesty, your...comprehension...of the circumstances will clarify.”
Not an answer. A carefully worded insult. But Huwen had more pressing matters than to rise to the bait. “And in payment for violating the death taboo, for dragging Eamon back to earth, all Gods other than the One must be stripped of their followers. Do I comprehend that?”
Wenid licked his lips. “Yes.” He looked Huwen directly in the eye as he spoke, yet something in his manner made Huwen think there was a hidden complexity in this response, too.
“My father’s war is not about trade, or politics, or even religion. It is about his debt to the One God.”
For a long moment, he thought the inscrutable man would not answer, but he spoke. “It is about all of these matters. Sire.”
Huwen’s heat rose. “You are aware that since that time Eamon has been tormented. That he has wished to take his own life.”
“I am aware.” His face was flat. Dangerous.
And understanding crystalized. Not to end this life, but— “To return to Heaven.”
Wenid made no response.
“Is that why Father sent him here with you? With the Ruby? So you might travel with him to Heaven for brief moments, to feed his illness?”
“You are asking—”
“Father’s dead!”
The magiel’s mouth snapped shut.
His brother. Touched by the realm beyond death, the realm of perfect beauty. And with Wenid and the Ruby, he could dissipate his life in its pursuit.
And waste Wenid, too. Which was perhaps why the old man seemed so much more frail. Wenid no longer had the power to object. They fed each other.
Disgust turned Huwen’s stomach.
What was he going to do? Demand the Ruby, for one thing. Eamon would not touch it again.
A loud rap sounded on the door. “Your Majesty!”
He pierced Wenid’s face with his gaze.
“Your Majesty!” Another sharp knock.
“Enter.”
The page stood aside and a handful of his guards strode into the room. His general entered, and a mud-spattered young soldier knelt on one knee. “Sire, rebels have gathered an army south of the Coldridge River.”
“What?” Huwen pivoted in his chair.
His general nudged the young man to stand.
“At dawn today, my platoon returning from Archwood discovered an upriser encampment six miles from here,” the soldier reported. “We surprised them but were grossly outnumbere
d. They slaughtered many of us before we could escape.”
Huwen was on his feet. “Details.”
“I was unable to see the extent of their numbers but there are several thousand, at least, with horses and dressed in common clothing in the fashion of Teshe, Midell, Gramarye, and Elsen. The scouts who routed us were armed with a variety of weapons, including good steel.”
“General.”
“I have called a war council in the Blue Room with your ranking officers. However, the majority of Arcan’s armies are en route from Archwood or on their way to Holderford. I have sent scouts to recall them.”
The transition between kings. A small borderland fort. And the new king, his magiel, and his brother. And...the Ruby. All, together. The rebels’ strategy—and information?—was staggering.
His own position was far too overconfident.
Huwen bit his lip. He had no experience of war, other than the endless siege at Archwood, and little training. He nodded to the general. “Assemble your maps and whatever else will aid in our planning. I will be there directly.”
His general saluted.
“And, to you...” he said to the soldier. Older than him.
“...Grayson.”
“Grayson. Good work.”
The soldier saluted, and the contingent departed.
Wenid had risen.
Huwen turned to his inner chamber. He must dress. “We will continue this discussion later.”
“And Archwood?”
Wenid’s change in subject came from nowhere.
“Sire, I have a great desire to know.” Wenid leaned forward on his cane, and the facade over his hunger faltered. “Your courier brought the news. Archwood has fallen. But...the Amber?”
“What of it?” Huwen shoved away the sudden image of the uncanny stillness and silence. The stink of death.
Wenid closed his eyes, trembling with self-restraint. “Is the Amber destroyed?”
Huwen shook himself. He had no time for this. “The Amber was smashed publicly, as were all the other prayer stones.” He could withhold some complexities as well. “We can discuss details later. Now.” He had to show strength. “Prepare yourself. I will be at the war council directly. I expect you there.”
“Sire.”
“What!”
“Such a battle as we face here is nothing to the One God. If unopposed by any prayer stone.”
Huwen hesitated, a hand on his chair.
“A prayer.” Wenid leaned a fist on the table. “Is all it takes.”
The suggestion gave him pause. Of course, he was the royal of the Ruby, now. Huwen had known, part of him had known, this day would come, yet it took him by surprise. And...something cautioned him. Such a solution, calling on the One God for intervention, was too easy. “Praying would absent me from my troops. Both at prayer, and then in recovery.”
“Your generals, by your leave Sire, are more experienced in directing a battle on the ground.”
“A king must be seen to lead.”
Wenid straightened slowly. “Your brother could take your place.”
“At the head of the army?” The idea was preposterous. Eamon was fifteen.
“In Heaven.”
Huwen knew the answer before he allowed himself to speak. “No.”
Again, Wenid knew better than to argue. He drilled Huwen with his eyes.
Huwen shook head slowly. “He can’t.” The days, weeks Eamon had spent. Sleeping, hiding in darkened rooms. Disinterest in food. In friends, in family, in self-pride. His brother was too young to disappear into a dark void of dependence. Then— “Where is the Ruby?”
Wenid’s eyes lidded. “In the shrine. Of course.”
A wash of relief eased through him. “Eamon must not—”
“Your Majesty!” A pounding sounded on his door.
Huwen whirled. “I am coming!”
The door flew open and a member of the household guard entered in sudden confusion.
“What!”
The boy blinked and bowed. “A—an urgent message for Milord Chancellor.”
Gods, was his private chamber a crossroads for every messenger in the kingdoms?
“Speak,” Wenid said.
“Your servant, Gweddien.” The guard licked his lips. “He urges your immediate presence.”
“Your Majesty.” Wenid bowed. “I request leave to depart.”
Huwen stared at the two. Stranger and stranger. But his generals waited. “Granted. Do not be late to the war council.”
Rennika peered into the camp from the door of her tent. Twilight was gone. After a tedious, rainy day of being in everyone’s way as soldiers finalized preparations for their dawn attack—and at the same time, spotted the instant she drifted near the horses or supply tents—Rennika found herself edgy with worry and frustration. Meg had not returned. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, Rennika could do.
Now, though, the upriser camp was deserted. Well, not quite. A handful of cooks and old men, farriers and such, and a minimal crew of sentries, mostly boys about Rennika’s age, remained. In one corner of the camp, a company of soldiers that only arrived last night were preparing to leave for battle as replacements. But the thousands of men, who had been here until dusk, were gone.
At sunset, the camp had sprung to sudden life. Something happened—Rennika never did determine what—and the rebels’ entire strategy changed. They mounted and left before the last light had gone from the sky.
And now...nothing. The rain had stopped, and the constellation of Faolan’s Crown rose behind scattered cloud. Rennika knew she should sleep, but until Meg returned, sleep would not be possible.
Now, though, no one was inordinately concerned with watching the horses. Or the supplies. Or—since her minder had become distracted gossiping with the cook about the change in plans—her.
Sulwyn’s breath puffed white in the cold air as he sat his horse on a slight rise, overlooking the last hundred yards that separated the upriser army from the city wall, gates closed, beyond the river. Twilight had faded from the sky, and the shot of battle whiskey had faded from his blood.
He fumed. Meg’s horses. Two nights ago, she and Rennika had been surprised by a party of Arcan soldiers on the road from their rendezvous and escaped by stealing two mares. The soldiers had tracked them.
Their sentries had been solid, given a good fight, killed or captured the enemies. All but two, and that was enough. Their men gave chase, right to the walls of Coldridge, and managed to kill one with a fortuitous arrow. The other gained the safety of the fortress.
Piss!
Meg, Kilovan, and Xanther had gone to Coldridge in the early candlemarks, to return before nightfall—if they could—and the rebel army was to have departed at midnight for a predawn attack. Not now. Dwyn ordered an immediate mobilization, and now they waited while Orville moved his cumbersome machines into place. Not an auspicious beginning.
Surprise attack, the uprisers’ weapon, had evaporated.
Dwyn arrayed his archers in a long line, many ranks deep on the battlefield, pike and swordsmen ready with shields and ladders. The rain had stopped but the ground was soft, and Orville’s machines were heavy. They crawled along the field through mud churned by draft horses, pushed by straining men. Sulwyn hoped Orville’s promise that they could function from a distance was true; and that their troops could hold out against the royal forces long enough for the machines to prove their worth.
The good news was a courier had arrived in the night, reporting a successful surprise infiltration of Storm River and a surrender parley at Farfalls. Umber had fallen to upriser forces.
Now, if only Xanther and Kilovan—and Meg—would report back. To attack Coldridge in the face of the power of the Ruby was folly. And he did not want to attack while the assassination party was inside the city walls. While Meg was inside the city walls. The murder, if it were successful, should have been accomplished by now.
The horse next to him nuzzled the stubble, lips questi
ng for a bit of green. Sulwyn glared at his lieutenant, and the man brought his mount’s head up.
But the men had been standing, tense, waiting Dwyn’s command for more than a candlemark. They were not mercenaries, not professionals. They were bakers and smiths and farmers. Each was prepared to die for what was right. For their mothers and daughters and lovers. For the sake of an ideal and a toast of whiskey among brothers.
By Kanden’s goodness, why was there no sign of Meg? Sulwyn pulled out his wine skin, filled now with whiskey, and took a mouthful to push the worries back.
The city was on alert. Meg and the others were not going to come running from the front gate. And if they did, they’d be shot from the parapets.
No, Meg Falkyn would come by some hidden route. Or not at all.
Wenid did not leap to obey the summons’ of servants, but just now, the request to go to Gweddien had come at an opportune moment. The boy king would be a handful, he could see. He needed to rethink his strategy with the youth. The Amber, crushed. Yet...the young lion cub had not told all. He would need to be coached in better dissembling.
Wenid followed the guard to Gweddien’s appointment chamber.
A girl stood in the corner, balanced on the balls of her feet like a cat about to dart. Her skin barely shimmered, and Wenid would have dismissed her as a half-blood unworthy of his Marigold plan.
Gweddien, sitting on the unused bed, ashen and clammy, jumped up as soon as Wenid arrived. “I didn’t want to send information with a messenger in case you wanted this quiet.” He eyed the guards.
Wenid nodded and they left. The girl watched them, calculating escape.
“Janatelle Falkyn.”
Wenid whipped around. “Falkyn!”
The boy nodded, clammy with his need for glim, but earnest.
Wenid re-evaluated the girl. “You’re sure.”
Rage and fright widened her eyes and she had frozen, staring.
“I traveled with her for a season—more! A year ago.” Gweddien would not lie. Wenid had established that early on.
There was no purer bloodline. Her skin, only faintly blurred, was a testament to her mother’s power over her own biology. In fact, this girl was likely a stronger magiel than Wenid was.
